


One Way Ticket

by UbiquitousMixie



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 01:46:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10776867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UbiquitousMixie/pseuds/UbiquitousMixie
Summary: Vera flirts with danger, and danger is flirting right back. Set mid season 4.





	One Way Ticket

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing for this fandom, so please be kind! I'm completely obsessed with Freakytits. Please enjoy and let me know what you think!

Vera can feel those dark, calculating eyes on her, cataloguing every move, every breath, every flutter of lashes. Heat flares in her cheeks, her body betraying her mind’s attempt at maintaining a cool, distant composure. She shudders -- in fear, in arousal, in anger at herself for her inability to reign in her attraction. She feels like a damn cliche, a moth to Joan Ferguson’s proverbial flame. 

Joan Ferguson would patiently wait for the moth to rest on her outstretched, unmoving hand, and she would not hesitate to pull the moth’s delicate wings from its body in grim, morbid fascination. 

A shiver skitters down Vera’s spine and stings at the pit of her belly at the thought. Joan would not hesitate to pull her limb from limb if it suited her purpose -- and it could, at any moment. 

Why, then, does the woman still arouse her to the point of insanity? 

Vera stands rigid by the window, her hands clasped tightly before her. She miscalculated this entire meeting: the lights are too dim, the door is closed, her blinds are shut, and the prison is operating with its overnight skeleton crew. Joan is sitting in the visitor’s chair, arm propped along the backrest, toying with a strand of the hair that hangs loose around her shoulders. 

Vera suppresses a heavy swallow, knowing it’s futile to hide anything from the woman who notices everything.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this little visit?” Joan asks, her voice cool but melodic, her imperious eyebrow arching in curiosity. 

“You requested to see me, actually, not the other way ‘round.” Try as she may, Vera cannot keep the defensiveness from creeping into her voice. 

“Mmm,” Joan hums, leaning forward to readjust the cardholder on her former desk. “I did -- two days ago, a request that you rudely ignored. Therefore, by my calculations, you are the instigator of this meeting.” Joan looks positively serene as she tilts her head and says, “So tell me, Governor Bennett, what you needed to meet with me about at this late hour.”

Vera can tell that Joan is in a particularly lethal mood, a fact that both intrigues and terrifies her. She can be on level footing with this woman, but she somehow always ends up two steps behind. Vera, however, is not in the mood to be toyed with and stalks toward the desk, ignoring the way her body flames at Joan’s closer proximity, and turns the cardholder to a crooked angle. She revels at the spark in those dark eyes. “You asked to meet with me for a reason. Out with it.” 

“Oh, it’s nothing to worry about. The issue has resolved itself without your assistance.” The corner of Joan’s mouth tilts into an almost imperceptible smirk. “I’m nothing if not effective at conflict resolution.”

Vera bites the inside of her cheek. This could, of course, mean anything -- it could be mere bait meant to unsettle her….but it could be something far worse. “Joan…”

“Vera.” 

“I'm not in the mood for your games.” 

Joan stands then, towering over the smaller woman, and takes a step closer. Vera’s sex clenches tightly in response to the throb of hunger that grips her at Joan’s nearness. Even in her teal sweats, Joan is an attractive woman and, though Vera would never admit this aloud to a living soul, is even more captivating with her hair down. Even mentally unstable murderers can be stunningly beautiful -- who knew?

She doesn't need to say this aloud -- Joan already knows. 

“And what game are we playing, Vera?” Joan’s finger traces the little crown on Vera’s shoulder. “Cat and mouse?” 

“I am no mouse,” Vera replies, taking in a shaky breath. Her voice betrays her. Joan smirks. 

“Are you sure about that?” Joan’s fingers trace down the length of the uniform, pausing to circle each shiny button. Vera attempts to cover her gasp with a cough. 

Joan chuckles. 

Vera’s anger spikes. “I am _no_ mouse. Now tell me what you’ve done.” 

The taller woman hums, and Vera can nearly feel the vibration through her own body. “I’ve done so many things, Vera. You’ll have to be more specific.” 

“You said you resolved an issue yourself,” the Governor responds through clenched teeth. “What have you done? Have you hurt someone? Proctor? Smith?” 

“All in good time, Vera.” She looks down at the smaller woman, her dark eyes studying Vera’s face despite having already memorized every line, curve, and freckle. “Now, let’s not waste any more time, hmm? We both know why I’m here.” 

Vera trembles. Her body screams for Joan’s touch and yet there is disappointment, deep in her bones, at her inability to deny the accuracy of Joan’s words. She has not brought Joan Ferguson into her office after hours for a chat. Girl talk is the farthest thing from her mind, as is attempting to decipher whatever sinister plot the former governor has set into motion. She is disgusted by her own transparency, by her inability to say no to what is so clearly a one way ticket to her inevitable ruin. 

She flirts with danger, and danger is flirting right back. 

Joan’s nimble fingers effortlessly pop open the button of Vera’s slacks before drawing down the zipper. Vera holds her breath and the sound of the zipper’s teeth parting is the only thing she can hear, a metallic sigh that she herself cannot emit. She grips the edge of her desk with her hands, steadying herself while Joan teases apart the two halves of her slacks. 

Vera hates herself for this. 

Neither woman speaks as Joan’s hand slips beneath the waistband of her underwear. Joan is warm, all hot, burning intensity. It surprises Vera every time Joan touches her -- in her mind, Joan is ice and sharp edges, but in reality, she is scorching heat. 

When Joan’s fingers meet sticky, damp curls, Vera bites her lip in shame, casting her eyes down at the floor. It is her next mistake. With her free hand, Joan tilts Vera’s head back to look her in the eye. “You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?” 

Vera stares at her. The evidence is all over Joan’s hand. 

“Tell me, Vera.” 

“You already know the answer to that.” 

“I think I need to hear you say it, Vera. If you don’t, I’ll have no choice but to insist you return me to my cell.” 

Vera’s nostrils flare, and her anger spikes again. There is a fine line between pleasure and humiliation, and her body trembles with untempered longing. “I’ve thought about this all day.” It pains her to speak these words aloud, but she at least has enough restraint not to rock against Joan’s hand in an effort to chase her own release. 

“Only today?” Joan shifts her fingers, pressing against the swollen folds of her sex, and arches an eyebrow. “I suspect you’ve been imagining me fucking you far longer than just today. Isn’t that right, Vera?” 

Vera nods. She’s been thinking about this for years -- a fact that is known to them both. 

Fingers pause their exploration. “I’m afraid I didn’t hear you, Vera.” 

Vera’s gut churns with anger and frustration and fright. She narrows her eyes, staring unblinking into the watchful eyes of the prisoner. “I’ve wanted you to fuck me all week. It’s all I can think about so can you just…” 

Joan smirks once more. “Just get on with it?” 

Vera does not look away in shame, though her cheeks flame all the brighter. “Please, Joan.” 

The other woman is still, observing every minute detail, plotting each and every move to come. “You need this.” It is not a question. It is a fact, but one that Joan wants validated. 

“Yes. I don’t know why but yes -- _ooh_!” 

Joan circles her finger around her rigid, hard clitoris only once before slipping lower and entering her in one fluid motion. She pauses again, pressing her finger against Vera’s inner heat, feeling her pulse. “You do know why.” She pulls back her finger, circling the taut, sensitive ring of flesh just at her entrance. “The thrill of it excites you.” Two fingers thrust inside, forcing Vera to cry out. “You are weak, Vera Bennett, but I make you feel strong.” She thrusts again, harder. “Powerful.” Her palm grinds against Vera’s clit. “Free.” 

Vera’s fingers grip the desk even tighter, anchoring herself from the force of Joan’s thrusts. She spreads her thighs, allowing the other woman as much access as possible given the constraints of her pants. She wants Joan to shut her mouth, to stop whispering things that are too real, but she also cannot deny the truth of her words or the surge of arousal to hear that dangerously low timbre in her ear. 

And God, she hates that it’s true. She hates that these few blissful minutes of pleasure are a respite from the loneliness and the self-loathing and the stress and the anger. When Joan fucks her, she can forget for about how the other woman betrayed her, hurt her, broke her heart…

“Stay with me, Vera.” Joan thrusts hard inside of her, unforgiving, and Vera cries out. She can hear the muffled, wet sounds of Joan’s fingers and the blood roaring in her ears -- and once more, Joan’s voice cuts through all of that. “You cannot shut me out. You and I both know that I’m the only one who can do this for you.” She leans closer, her lips just barely caressing the pink tip of her ear. “Not even your precious Jake can fuck you or possess you the way I can. You are _mine_ ,” Joan states harshly, twisting her fingers and scissoring them to feel as much of Vera’s heat as possible. 

Vera slams her eyes shut, Joan’s words echoing in her head. She hates it, hates all of it, hates what this makes her. Hates that she’s not the one in charge here and never will be. Hates that she thinks of Joan when she is making love to Jake. Hates that her body yearns for Joan at any moment of any day. Hates that these fingers inside of her have given her life and taken others’ lives away. Hates that the silky smooth lips at her ear have issued death sentences and uttered scathing insults meant to tear her apart. 

“You will always be mine, Vera.” 

Vera knows what will happen now. Joan will draw this out until Vera is on the brink of losing what little remains of her sanity until she agrees. Until she admits the sick, ugly truth. 

“Yes,” Vera whispers, desperate for release. “Yours.” 

Vera can feel Joan’s lips curl into a smirk. Mercifully, Joan does not ridicule Vera for her dominion over her. Instead, she takes pity on her and thrusts her fingers hard once, twice, and she begins to spasm on the third, her body shattering under the force of her pleasure. She slumps her body forward against Joan’s strong arm as she comes and comes and comes. 

When it’s over and her breathing slows, Vera bites her lip and looks at the floor. Joan is gentle when she slides her fingers out and is careful not to wipe the wetness on the fabric of her slacks. Her mouth brushes against the shell of Vera’s ear. The tenderness is confronting; this is Joan, a woman capable of horrible things, but who also betrays her cool detachment by these tiny glimmers of caring. 

Vera’s heart aches. 

Joan steps back, reaching over the desk for a tissue. Vera takes the opportunity to compose herself while Joan wipes away the evidence of her arousal. 

“Joan, I need to know what you’ve done in my prison.” 

Joan throws the tissue in the waste basket and walks slowly toward the door, awaiting her escort back to her unit.. Her smile is chilling. The tenderness is gone. “It’s my prison, dear Vera. Do keep up.” 

\---


End file.
